“Are you nervous?” I ask after a few seconds.
She absently plays with my fingertips. “Kind of. I guess I am, because what if it hurts or whatever. But …”
“But?”
“It’s Smitty,” she says, like he’s the answer to everything. “Hal cares about me more than himself. He’d do anything for me. Love’s like that, you know?”
I want to tell her I do know.
But I don’t.
And it makes the beating muscle in my chest pinch with hurt.
“He loves me the same way I love him,” she tells me. “Maybe that’s dumb. But we go together.”
The hurt in my heart pulls while she brushes her thumb over my nail beds.
“Don’t worry,” she says a second time. “You go ahead and save your innocence, Princess Bliss. When you find the right frog for the job, you’ll know.”
Her wording makes me smile, and in the next second, the soreness in my chest grows into a different feeling altogether.
“Dusty!” Tommy calls from a floor below us. “Get the girls and come have breakfast.”
When my best friend’s brother knocks and opens her door, his hair is still a morning mess. He’s not dressed, but his smirk is wide awake and his eyes are clear. I want to wrap up in the feel of his good, good mood and kiss his lazy, upturned lips.
“You guys coming or what?” he asks.
“Yeah, yeah.” Rebecka waves him off as we get up, but he lingers against the door frame. She passes him, and as I do, this boy curls some of my messed up red-blonde around his fingers.
“Morning, sunny side.” His smirk makes me sway, and the sight of his lips makes me feel like making out until our lips bleed. When he turns away, I want to jump on his back and kiss, kiss, kiss him until he pulls me around.
But love is unallowed.
We’re glances, secrets, and a fraction of a touch from the top of his bare foot to sole of my socked one under the breakfast table.
We’re tenuous and insubstantial. We’re fragments. We’re hopeless, but I’m thankful when Thomas winks at me between his dad passing his mom the orange juice and his sister blowing bubbles in her chocolate milk.
Fragments are more than hopeless could ever ask for.
THE END of February warms the world up little by little, so I trade snow boots for ballet flats and navigate Newport High with awareness and confidence. I refuse to be intimated by things I overhear.
I see Thomas in the halls every now and then, and he occasionally acknowledges my existence with the same kind of little sister attention his friends show me. It’s equal parts annoying and not enough, but still more than he gives any other girl in school.
On the upside, I have lunch the same time as Becka this semester.
We’re sitting in our usual spot in the corner of the cafeteria, on top of the table with our feet on the chairs. White wintertime daylight pours in from the windows behind us, and the spacious room is crowded with teenagers. It smells like chili and cinnamon rolls and sounds like obnoxious chaos.
While my girl stirs the fruit on the bottom of the yogurt cup she brought from home, countless bangles dangle over hemp-twisted bracelets.
“So,” she starts without looking up. “I know tomorrow’s a school night, but do you think your mom would let you stay over?”
I shrug, sorting through a palmful of Skittles. “I don’t know. Why, what’s up?”
She’s hiding something and the longer I look, the harder it is for her to keep it down. Bringing her hand up, she coughs to clear her throat. I go from curious to eager. “Becka, what?”
“I should have asked if you were doing anything.”
“No.” I do a quick mental check. Pretty sure I’ll do homework, have dinner, and go to bed, where I’ll maybe stay up and talk to Thomas on the phone. “I’m not doing anything.”
While she takes a bite, I look at the tables and walls around us, all decorated with red and white bulletins and pink construction paper hearts.
Of course.
The boy I kiss would never make those kinds of plans.
“It’s totally stupid,” Becka rambles. “It’s dumb. Because we’re boyfriend and girlfriend or whatever. It’s another day of the year that card companies decided to capitalize on so that—”
Facing her, smiling the smile she won’t dare set free on her own lips, I lower my voice, but my excitement for this is uncontainable. “No way, Rebecka Castor, you have plans for Valentine’s Day?”
She rolls her eyes.
“You do,” I say, thrilled and anxious for her.
“Okay, okay.” The same blush from over a month ago colors her cheeks, but she plays it off. “It’s nothing. Smitty happened to casually mention that his parents will be gone for the night.”
“Girl…” I take her yogurt so she can’t avoid the excitement any longer “…is this it?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know … Maybe.” She meets my eyes and I see it. Her blues glow anticipation. “My parents are lax or whatever, but no way would Dad let me stay the night at a boy’s house. Especially tomorrow. And I’ve never snuck out before, and if you’re there, they’ll never suspect anything.”
“Totally,” I tell her. Someone should get to enjoy the holiday. “Of course I’ll come cover for you. We’ll figure something out.”
“Thank you, love.” She leans against my shoulder. “I’d do the same for you.”
I kiss the top of her head, but my heart splinters inside because that’s the thing.
She’ll never have to.
CONVINCING MY parents to let me stay elsewhere on a school night is no easy feat. When I try to after dinner, Mom gets all dramatic and confesses that she had a surprise girly movie night waiting for the two of us. It takes not only explaining that she can’t be upset with me for ruining plans I didn’t know existed, but pulling Dad into it too.
When they don’t work in his favor, he’s a fan of the facts.
“She’s a good kid, Teri,” he says. “She’s making straight A’s and it’s one night with her friend. She can stay home Friday.”
It’s not part of my plan, but I nod along.
“Besides…” he smiles, touching Mom’s hand “…it could be nice to have the house to ourselves tomorrow.”
Mom giggles.
I scream.
And they concede.
IN DEFIANCE against Cupid, I neglect all the pink and white in my wardrobe in favor of black this morning. I pin strawberry blonde up so my ends are untuggable and opt for smoky shadow instead of shimmer.
Dusty isn’t the only one who can ignore a whole day dedicated to loving.
At school, kids are buying red roses from the student treasury table, and the ones who aren’t paired up are ignoring the idea of romance blatantly. Everyone’s love-stupid in their own way. Everyone of course, except for Thomas and his friends.
The boys not only blow the holiday off, but have apparently skipped school altogether.
Kelly doesn’t seem bothered. She walks around with lit-up eyes that say Petey took care of her. And when I get to French, Valarie’s wearing black.
I wish I could change my clothes.
At lunch, Becka shows up with two Ring Pops.
“They’re from Smitty,” she says. “For us. He knows who my real valentine is.”
“Good thing,” I tease, sliding the grape sucker ring onto her finger before she puts the cherry one on mine. “Are you excited?”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Okay, maybe a lot. A lot.”
It’s funny and wonderful, seeing her enamored.
The rest of the day passes fairly normally. I don’t hear from Thomas, and though I didn’t really expect to, maybe I hoped to. It was with the smallest, deepest part of my secret heart, but it stings.
I’m mad at him.
While we spend snuck nights growing closer, we spend days slipping further and further apart. And the older he gets, it’s happening exponentially. Thomas will be seventeen this summer,
and what then? We are who we are, but where does that leave me when I can’t reach him?
Taking my seat in biology with a sigh, I swallow bitterness and push love from my mind.
“Hey,” Oliver says, setting his pen and pencil down on the table. There’s paint on his hands, sunshiny yellow, streaks of white, and a million hues of red. “I know Becka’s your Valentine.” He pulls a pack of Fun-Dip from his backpack. “But happy corporate holiday.”
“Thank you.” I lean my head on his shoulder and hug his arm as he sits down. He’s solid under his long black sleeve, strong. I tear the corner of the envelope packet, opening the blue powdered sugar first. “I haven’t had Fun-Dip since I was like, a kid.”
He laughs through his perfect smile. It’s the sound of selflessness, and it makes me feel warm down to my bones. I lick the stick for a dip of sugar, and we open our books as class starts.
“What’d you get for Erin?” I whisper a little later, once the teacher has sat down and left us to our microscopes.
Oliver looks at me with dark brown irises that could never lie. There’s real endearment there, and I can’t help remembering what Becka said a few weeks ago. About him like-liking me and dying to make me Christmas-explode. I push the thought away when boredom permeates his look.
“Some roses or whatever,” he answers.
I watch him set up our slides and check the microscope. He marks notes on our worksheet, and I dip another sugary lick before biting the stick.
“Pretty overrated, right?” I ask.
Oliver shrugs. “Sure.”
After class, Smitty and Becka find us in the hallway. Her Ring Pop is long gone and her eyes might as well be big pink cartoon hearts.
“Fun-Dip!” she says, glancing between Oliver and me before draping her arm over my shoulder. She leads us ahead of the boys, and I put my arm around her waist, offering her some of the candy I’ve been pinkie fingertip dipping from since I finished the stick.
“That was nice,” she says, declining and then side-eying me. “And thoughtful.”
“Shut your face,” I tell her. “He got his girlfriend flowers. Fun-Dip is nothing.”
“Everybody gets flowers,” she says. “That shit’s basic. Required. Like, standard.” She looks at me as we walk, waiting for me to get it. “You mentioned Fun-Dip at the movies a month ago, genius.”
I remember, and the realization must show on my face because it makes Rebecka laugh. She chooses now to dip her pinkie in my sugar and winks at me as she takes the lick from her fingertip.
“Told you,” she teases. Then she turns around and grabs Smitty’s business.
He chases her down the hall à la middle school memories, and I’m left with a boy I can no longer deny has a bow and arrow for me.
OUTSIDE THE school, Tommy waits for us with the same look in her eyes as all the couples at school. I’m over it.
“What are you glowing about?” Becka asks as she buckles up in the front seat. I slide into the back as Tommy starts to drive.
“Your father cleared his evening and booked hotel reservations,” she explains. “He’s at home getting ready now.”
Which means Lucas either really did cancel all his commitments on a whim, or has been secretly planning this surprise for a while. Either way, if I was Tommy I’d be glowing too. Because how romantic.
Then Becka passes me a box of Turtles over the seat, which are also from Lucas.
“They’re Mom’s favorite,” she says.
I’m over it again.
Love makes me moody.
“I left my Visa on the table for when you guys want dinner. Don’t wait up,” Tommy teases as we pull into the driveway.
Becka’s too distracted by whatever Hal texted her to be grossed out. By the time we get to her room, her excitement has doubled with the fact that her parents won’t be home. She can leave sooner now, and easier. I sit on her bed while she changes a few times, telling her yes to this shirt, no to that one, but inside I’m bitter.
I glance at my phone while she digs through her closet. I haven’t heard from Thomas all day. Valentine’s has never been a thing before, but he loves me now. It should be different.
When Rebecka emerges again, she’s in another band tee, one with the neck cut so her skinny shoulder and purple bra strap are snowing.
“You know,” I tell her, “you could always wear one of those dresses that still has the tags on them. Easy access.”
AN HOUR-ISH later, Lucas and Tommy have left and Rebecka is about to. We’re on the couch, and she’s in the same outfit she started in.
“Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?” she asks, twisting her bracelets around.
“Ask me one more time, B,” I warn. I’m kidding, mostly. I love her, but I’m done with all this. The swoony getaways, the stupid heartthrob eyes, Ring Pops, Fun-Dip, being blown off—I’m drained. I’m jealous. And I’m ready to show Saint Valentine both of my middle fingers.
I need … something.
“It’s fine,” I tell Becka. “Seriously, truly. I’m going to raid all that candy your mom said we could have and watch TV my parents never let me watch. It’s fine.”
When she’s quiet, I feel bad. I should be happy for her.
“Besides,” I add, “someone has to show me the way.”
She smiles, and outside, Smitty rolls up in his brother’s car.
“Thank you, Bliss.” She hugs me. “Seriously truly, thank you.”
The old green Pontiac in the driveway beeps twice.
“Go.” I nudge her.
“I’m going. I love you. Do wait up,” she says. “I’ll be back with important lessons.”
Then, she’s out the door.
And I’m alone in the Castor home.
Some of my annoyance lifts without the burden of anyone to hide it from, and I shift my weight from foot to foot before going to the kitchen. The sight on the table is unreasonable. There are balloons and roses and boxes of specialty confections piled two and three high.
I turn around and head upstairs.
Afternoon sunlight illuminates Thomas’ room. His desk is cluttered, but his bed is made. There’s a basket of clean laundry next to it, waiting to be put away and giving vanilla and trouble tinged air hints of fresh fabric softener. Normally, it’s disappointing when I come to this place and find myself alone—and I knew he wouldn’t be here—but just like that, I feel better.
As I approach his bed, I notice that black sheets are sticking out crookedly from the corner of his gray comforter. They’re a slept-in mess underneath, and I smile as I turn around, falling back onto his mattress.
Knowing I’m the only girl who’s felt his sheets and heard the soft slide-sounds they make when we twist between them in the dark turns my frustration to flutters. When I tilt my face toward his pillows, I smell pot and powdered sugar together, and it makes my heart beat fuller and faster.
I love how safe this place is. I love that it’s only ours.
Bending my knees and pressing my legs together, I spread my arms out, feeling my way across cool cotton before bringing them back to myself. I slip my hands under the edge of my sweater without hesitation, covering my belly button and closing my eyes.
It’s heart-risking and sanity-destroying, but I really do belong to Thomas. Belly button. Heart. Soul. All of me, is all of his. I have this sense that I should be wary, but nothing in the whole world makes me feel like he does.
Turning a little, breathing deeper, I draw small circle shapes around my belly button and the bottom of my stomach. I think about the way his breathing changes when I touch him and the bare sounds he makes when we kiss. I trace the edge of my jeans and think about his weight against my hips, and I feel warm. All over. Inside and out.
Brushing only the tips of my fingers underneath denim, I follow sweetly, spreading heat with memories that incite my heartbeat. I forget today and replay our first kiss, so lost that when my back pocket vibrates, I nearly jump off the bed.
“
Shit—” I say out loud. Thomas’ face lights my screen, and my cheeks burn hotter. My pulse thumps hard in my chest, and my phone keeps buzzing.
Blowing slowly measured breaths out, I pull myself from daydream lushness and back to reality.
“Hey,” I answer evenly.
“Hey, princess kid.” Smoky dark and high lighthearted, Dusty’s voice fills my ears and goes straight to my pulse, more than my own thoughts or touch ever could. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I stare up at his ceiling. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking about you,” he says, his tone mellow and glad. The sounds of traffic and outside fill his pause, and I know he’s driving. “What are you doing right now? Are your parents home?”
My eyebrows lift and crinkle, and I glance at my screen for the time. It’s almost six. I’d be sitting down to dinner if I was at my house.
“Yeah, they’re home,” I tell him. “But I’m not.”
“Where are you?” he asks over breeze-muffled music.
“Guess.”
He laughs lightly. “Are you with my sister?”
“No.”
“Daisy?”
“Nope.”
Thomas laughs again, deeper this time.
“Go ahead, baby,” he says, and I can see his smirk so clearly in my mind. “Tell me you’re with Oliver so I can lay that motherfucker out.”
It goes right to where all my butterflies are, simultaneously feeding and increasing the precious ache he gives to me. My eyes are on his ceiling, but my fingers are back on my belly button, and I can see him, driving with the heel of his left hand, leaned back in totally cocky confidence.
“I’m not,” I tell him softly.
“Good,” he says. “I want to see you.”
“Me?” My heart skips.
“No, Cupid,” he teases. “Yeah, you. You’re my fucking girl, aren’t you?”
I keep my voice steady, but anticipation opens up like a wild thing inside me. It’s a twitch in my fingers and a tightness in my chest. It makes my stomach dip and flip, and my mind becomes one-tracked.
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